To Break A Man
by Aliit Vodeson
Summary: Jim wants to break them both. The Virgin and his little pet. Warning: Contains excessive violence, drug use, rape, physical and psychological torture.
1. Prologue

He'd shown up earlier than he said he would, though that wasn't unexpected. Jim just wished the Virgin had given him more time to play with the Pet. No matter. Soon, they would both dance to his tune, and only his tune. Breaking the Virgin would be easy. Too easy almost. Of course, he would want to be broken by the time Jim was finished with him.

Breaking the Pet would be harder.

Jim knew the Pet had been a solider and a doctor, that he had a psychosomatic limp related to his service and injury in Afghanistan That the Pet carried his cane out of habit, not out of need, and thought of himself as the Virgin's friend. He had seen several women since his return from the army, but none of the relationships had been lasting. And most importantly, the Pet hated the fact that since he had moved in with the Virgin, he had found that people believed him and the Virgin were in a homosexual relationship with one another. He was constantly troubled by the possibility that the Virgin and the Virgin's friends were right.

Perhaps, Jim thought with a smile, that was how to break the Pet.

Because he wanted the Pet broken. He wanted the Pet to be broken into tiny little pieces. He wanted to put those pieces back together himself. He wanted the Pet to be his Pet. Jim wanted the Pet to follow him around the city, to tell him how brillant he was. Maybe if the Pet was really good and really, really broken, Jim would let him see the Virgin. Not long enough to make the Pet forget who he belonged to. Just a little treat. A reminder of the power that Jim had, would have, over the Pet.

Right now, the Pet was unconscious sitting in one of the pool change rooms. The drug would be working it's way quickly out of his system. The Virgin was coming, racing through London's pulsing heart in one of those blasted cabs. He didn't know Jim had the Pet. Oh no, that little bit would be a surprise. Jim couldn't wait to see the Virgin's face.

A soft moan came from behind the curtain where the Pet was. Jim's smile grew as the moan became louder, more audible. The Pet was awake! Time to dance!

_x~x~x_

John was aware he was making a god awful racket as he blinked away the darkness. His leg and shoulder hurt more than they had since that day in the desert. He wasn't, he found to his utter astonishment given his last memory and how he was waking up, tied up. In fact, he wasn't tied up, handcuffed, chained or otherwise restricted.

"Wakey wakey! Time to rise and shine! And it's looking to be a beautiful day!" The sing-song voice was coming from close to his ear, too close in fact, as John could feel a wall pressing against his back. There wasn't anyone near him, on that side at least, and yet the voice was right in his ear. "Aren't you excited, Johnny?"

John closed his eyes, held his body in place, and let out the contents of his lungs. He opened his eyes. He's in what appears to a change room stall. The semi-sweet chemical smell of chlorine permeates the air. A pool then.

"Are you scared Johnny?" The same ugly and smooth voice said. "Scared that Sherlock's not going to come? Remember when you went away for a whole two weeks and he didn't even notice? Maybe that will happen again."

John reached up to his ear. Twisted cable rand down to a small box on his shoulder. He followed it back up to his ear lobe. An earpiece was stuck into his left ear, just like the one he'd worn during his army days.

"What are you thinking, dear little Johnny? Johnny with his jumpers. Johnny in the jumpers is going to dance for me, isn't he?"

"And why would I do that?" John has to fight to keep his voice level, but it does stay even and calm.

"Because, dear little Johnny, I have you."

And the way his voice had dropped down, just a tiny little bit in pitch, meant that it was no longer so smooth or silky, and it scared John far more than the bombs or the snipers had. "And what are you going to do to me?"

"Oh don't worry Johnny. Nothing too big." That sing-song quality to the voice was back. "Just little things. Fingers first maybe. Toes of course. Those come off so easily."

John heard the gasp go through his own lips. He tried to bite it back, but it was already out. Of course there'd be torture. He know how to fight it off, how to separate his mind from his body and pain. At least in principle. He wasn't sure if he could actually succeed at it.

"Oh, did I say something bad, Johnny? Offend you maybe?" John fought the urge to scream, to yell for the man to shut up, to just shut the bloody hell up! "You're angry Johnny. Angry and scared and worried." There was a crackle of laughter over the radio. "Fun's almost over Johnny. But before we go to work, look down."

John did.

He hadn't even noticed the extra weight of the vest before. Or the bombs attached to it. The dawning realization that he'd been turned into a living, human bomb hurt though. Why now? Who now, of all the bloody times! He'd made it through his tours of duty in some of the roughest parts of the war without major injury. Even the gunshot to the left shoulder hadn't been so major as to invalid him out on it's own. He was supposed to be safe now. Bloody England was supposed to be a safe place and here he was! Kidnapped twice in the short while he'd been living in the capital. Kidnapped twice, shot at, tied to a bloody bomb and for what? All for a bloody joke it seemed!

"I like the look of explosives on you Johnny. Very military, but with that extra something."

John was sweating. So this is what the game would be. He'd do as the man said, or he'd be blown up. Some mad man would press the trigger and do what all the IEDs and Taliban in Afghanistan couldn't do. Blow him to bits. Send him sky high. Put down John Watson once and for all.

"Oh, it's such fun to watch you think! Does Sherlock watch you? He should!" John could almost picture a little kid jumping on his bed in excitement over a new toy. "He should watch his little toy think when the danger's really there!"

"What the hell do you want from me?" John spat the words out.

"We're going to have such fun together! It's just like a game of Doctor Says. Only I get to tell the doctor what to do!" The man was giggling. Positively giggling. "You ready to play?"

"No."

"Don't be like that Johnny. Just so you know, there's enough explosives strapped to you right now to blow up four London blocks. All boom!"

John didn't even know if he was still in London anymore. He could be anywhere that had a swimming pool. He could have been taken out to one of those country club pools, where there would be no one else around for miles.

Or he could still be in the very center of London.

John let out a long, slow, calming breath. "What do you want?" The words come out separated He hadn't meant for that to happen. It betrayed his fear more than he wanted.

"Oh come one Johnny. Surely you know how this game works. I say stuff, and you repeat it."

"You're the one whose been taking all those people. For the games with Sherlock."

"Yes!" Another giggle from the mysterious man on the other end of the radio connection. "And now, we begin." John could hear the man clearing his throat. "Repeat after me, and don't mess this up Johnny."

_x~x~x_

_**Well, there's the first little bit guys. Don't worry, this is just a little preamble to the pool scene at the end of "The Great Game", not where the story's actually going. Just came to me as a good introduction to what Jim does with the pair from 221B later on. More to come, already have the next chapter written up.**_

_**Please review! I love hearing from readers, even if it's to tell me that they hated it. While I might not enjoy that, it's still nice to know that someone read the story. **_


	2. Chapter 1

**_So because I have such a overwhelming response to the prologue, just in follows and favourites, I'm posting this a bit earlier than planned._**

It had been nearly a year since the scene at the pool. Moriarty's name had cropped up several times since then, but they had not seen the man himself. The events with a certain Irene Addler had pushed off the hunt for Jim Moriarty, and even then, John felt that they did not hold much of a chance of finding him. Even Sherlock had told his brother that "the consulting criminal won't be so stupid as to get caught by the likes of you". Mycroft had stormed out of the flat a short while later. John had a suspicion that they wouldn't find Moriarty for a long time.

He was secretly glad.

"What are you doing up there?" Mrs. Hudson yelled from her flat below theirs. "Stop that infernal racket for just this once! I'm trying to watch the telly!"

John turned his head. Sherlock was pounding away in the kitchen, mushing up some strange mixture in a glass bowl. "It is rather loud Sherlock. Couldn't you just use the food processor instead of my pestle?" His thoughts trailed away from him. "Is that...blood?"

"Yes." Sherlock kept pounding with the pestle, crushing what looked to be nuts mixed with blood. "Type O negative if you really must know."

John put the bookmark in his current reading book, City of Bones, set the paperback carefully on the side table, and walked through to the kitchen. "And why, exactly, are you mixing blood in our kitchen? I use that pestle to make cookies!"

Sherlock blew a raspberry at John. "I'll buy you a new one. I needed this for an experiment."

"Experiment." John repeated. "Of course. Why do I even bother asking when it's perfectly normal to be mashing up blood and pecans in the bloody kitchen!" John shouted as Sherlock stopped mashing the nuts to look at him.

"John, be reasonable. I understand that my experiments are hardly the usual sort of activities a flatmate will preform. But they are highly necessary to my work." John sputtered in anger as Sherlock returned his gaze to the bloodied bowl. "And I'm not using pecans. Pecans would give entirely the wrong consistency in the final product. These are walnuts. I couldn't find any mashed walnuts at the corner store, and it's probably better that I mash them myself."

John slammed the door to the flat behind himself while Sherlock was still talking. He was met halfway down the stairs by an indignant Mrs. Hudson. He could hear Sherlock resuming the loud pounding of his walnuts and blood. "Really John, what is that man getting up to? It's such a dreadful thumping. I thought maybe the two of you had decided to have a little lie in."

John blushed. "Mrs. Hudson, you don't want to know what Sherlock's doing at the moment. And honestly, I wish I didn't either." He wasn't in the mood to correct her assumption that he and Sherlock were sharing more than a flat. Not that it made any difference to the old woman when he did point out they weren't a couple.

"Had another domestic have you?" She tittered and winked at him. "Why don't I make you a nice cuppa tea? Just so you can calm down, let it out of your system."

"Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Hudson, but I think I just need a walk. Alone." He looked back over his shoulder, at the landing that lead to their flat. "Away from Sherlock."

He could hear her turn the telly volume as he closed the blue door behind him. He smiled a little. Reruns of Horrible History were on again. Guess she still fancied that Matt Bayton guy. It's the only reason John can think of that she watched the show. He had sat through part of one episode with her, while Sherlock ranted about how the show was totally in actuate and Henry the eighth was actually two inches shorter. John had laughed and enjoyed the musical numbers much more after that.

He tugged his coat sleeves tighter over his arms. It was one of those rare fall days where the sun was shining but the wind cut through the city streets with such a fierce chill that most of those out on the street were wearing coats or jackets. He headed left, past the care and row of flat houses that lined the rest of Baker street. He avoided the gaze of the other pedestrians, kept his hands balled in fists and inside his pockets.

His mobile buzzed in his trouser pocket.

'New case. Could be serial killer.'

John sighed as the phone buzzed again.

'Don't bother coming back. Take the cab to Blackman Frairs Bridge.'

John slide out the mobile's keypad. "On way", he intoned as he typed the letters the phrase out. Once he'd sent the text, he looked around for a cab.

He had just slide into the back seat and closed the door behind him when the cabbie asked "where to, Johnny boy?" John looked in confusion. The driver was grinning widely back at him. "Anywhere special you want to go?"

"Moriarty!" John reached back to his belt loop for his gun. His fingers met only cloth and skin. With a sinking stomach, John remembered leaving the flat in such frustration that he hadn't taken the Browning pistol with him.

"Now, now, Johnny. Don't do anything silly." Moriarty made a comically patronizing face as he steered the cab out into the busy street. "Sherlock wouldn't benefit from your actions."

"You...have...Sherlock."

Moriarty giggled and the sound sent a shiver of fear down John's spine. "Yes! I got so bored without you, Johnny, I decided to swing by a pick you up as well."

John turned his face away from the tinted window. "What sort of sick game is it this time? Take me and Sherlock, strap bombs to us and then what?" His anger almost spilled into an attempt to strangle Moriarty from behind, through the partition.

"Oh Johnny, who said anything about bombs?"

The cab jerked suddenly to a stop. The door on John's side was wrenched open by a large, beefy man who growled for him to "stay quiet if you know what's good for you" and grabbed John's arm. The man shoved John over and climbed into the cab next to him, still holding John's arm. Moriarty started driving again, giggling like a madman.

"Let go of my arm!" John tried tugging the offending limb out of the man's grasp. He only succeeded in increasing the pain to his old shoulder wound.

"Moran." Moriarty said in the tone of a parent chastising an unruly toddler. "Don't hurt the good doctor."

And then there was white cloth over his face and that all too familiar smell John would always associate with sand, brick walls and digging bullet shards out of crying men. He fought the memories of the desert and chloroforming other soldiers until the darkness took him.

_x~x~x_

Jim continued to giggle as the Pet slumped against Moran's shoulder. This would be a new game, the first one where the Pet was going in at the same level as the Virgin. They could never be equal pieces in the game, but this time they would start the game at the same place. His men had picked up the Virgin as he'd left the flat, lost in thoughts of serial killers who drowned their victims. Moriarty had always harbored a soft spot from Blackman Friars bridge, which was why he'd chosen the bridge for the staging of the murders. The red and black bridge had a certain symbolism for a death where no blood was shed.

"He's out boss." Moran pushed the Pet off him, letting the doctor slide on the seat instead.

"Good." Jim made the turn to the garage, where their other car was waiting. "How are the others?"

"The detective is coming peacefully." Moran was rather loudly checking his mobile. "Should I have them use the drug anyways?"

"Yeah." Jim was always bored. He wanted to play the game, to watch the pair dance. He wanted the Virgin broken and for the Pet to be in a thousand pieces. Why did these plans for the game take so much time? He wanted to play now.

_**Thanks for reading, leave me a review if you feel up to it.**_

_**Side note, reviews can and will quite possibly influences further chapters. If you want something to happen, you can let me know :)**_


	3. Chapter 2

John still didn't know or particularly want to know how they'd gotten Sherlock to come along and get himself kidnapped. They weren't tied up, which was worrisome in of it's own self. Both of them had been drugged, the lingering headache and deep muscle pain told John that much. There was no clue in the room to where they were. No window to let in the light, no clues that Sherlock could pick up.

Or maybe he simply didn't care to share them with John. That was always a possibility.

"New cement. Why would it be new?" Sherlock was pacing on the far side of the room. "Why new cement?" John was just about to state the obvious when Sherlock hit himself on the head, or at least that's what it sounded like. John couldn't see a thing. "Of course! So I won't get anything. Oh, they're clever! Very clever!"

John sits back again. The cell is small, cramped and he only knows where Sherlock is by following the sound of his voice and feet as the man paced. His shoes made hollow clacking noises as he walked, the sound echoing through the tiny room. John would have told the other man to just sit down and let John sit in silence long before this because his head hurt, but he knew that Sherlock needed to move to think properly.

Hours passed like that; Sherlock pacing and John thinking. At least, he thought it was hours. It sure felt like hours. John had gone through training for this, for keeping time without any measure of it. But like most of the things he'd learned in military training, he had never had to put it to use or kept up his practice after he had invalided out and returned to London. He regretted that now.

He regretted a lot of things. Like taking the first cab who'd stopped for him. Like checking his text messages from Sherlock. Like leaving the flat and going for a walk. Like not strangling Moriarty when he had the chance.

_x~x~x_

Jim kept them in the cell for three days. He didn't have a video feed, his normal way of keeping track of interesting prisoners, because the absolute lack of light was a key feature in this particular cell and video feeds weren't very interesting when there wasn't any light to see by. Instead he had an audio feed set up, and some of the smarter members of his organization were detailed to listen to it in real time.

Water bottles were delivered twice a day through the slot at the bottom of the steel door. Jim smiled when the Pet insisted on rationing the water, "we don't know how long we'll be here Sherlock", and the Virgin had drunk his bottle all in one go anyway. No food was given to the pair though. Just the water bottles. Clear spring water that had come in the plastic containers, not water from any tap on the site. Jim wasn't taking any chances of the Virgin figuring out where they were being held. That would take all the fun out of the game.

Three days he let the Virgin and the Pet sit in the cell. He had originally planned for it to be longer, to see how long the Virgin could go before the strain of boredom got to him. But Jim had gotten bored before the strain of the cell, and called that bit of the plan off early. Noting to drastic just a little change in the time table and he was back on track.

Jim frowned over his line of thought. Back on tack. Such a cliche. Why was he using cliches in his own mind? Speaking them, using them for dramatic effect was one thing, but in his thoughts? No he shouldn't be. Back on track. It did suit his mood though. Perhaps that's how cliches became such cliches. Because they were useful little phrases that worked.

Never mind that, he told himself. He had work to do.

Little toys to break.

_x~x~x_

"How long?"

It was the first time Sherlock had addressed John since they'd woken up in the cell. "Three days, I think." He couldn't be sure. It might be more, it could have easily been much shorter. He wasn't sure.

"How do you know?"

John shrugged. Sherlock was still pacing, but John was passing the time by doing sit ups by the door. "It feels right."

Sherlock made a noise that sounded a bit like a car backfiring. John knew the sound and the expression that would be on Sherlock's face while he made it, even if he couldn't see the detective's face. "I can't go by feels right, John. I need hard data."

"Well, I'm sorry." John didn't try to bite back the angry tone that his voice carried. "It's all I've got."

There was a soft clatter from the doorway and the gentle tinkle of something plastic rolling along the floor. John snagged the first water bottle, then looker around a second one. They always sent in two. He couldn't find a second bottle through. Just the one.

"Only one bottle this time." Sherlock hadn't made it a question. John considered asking him how he knew, but then thought better of it. Probably deduced it from the sound waves or some bloody other thing.

"Yeah. Here." John felt his way forward until he hit Sherlock's arm. "You take it."

"Nonsense John. I hardly need the drink as much as you do."

"Well I've been rationing mine, so I've still got that." John forced the bottle into Sherlock's hand. "So take the daft thing."

Sherlock snorted, but didn't try to give the bottle back. John had noticed even before they'd been kidnapped that while Sherlock ate very little if he had a case, he drank an extraordinary amount of water on a daily basis. John smiled and listened to the detective twist off the cap and begin gulping down the water.

John resumed his seated position but not his sit ups. Instead he closed his eyes, not that it made any difference in what he saw, but he felt better when he did, and tried to ignore the pain in his shoulder and the ache in his leg and even the sound of Sherlock drinking down the water in one big gulp.

"Well isn't that cute." The voice came from the doorway. The door hadn't been opened though. "The perfect doctor, making sure his patient has enough water. Adorable."

John knew that voice. Would probably never forget it.

"Moriarty," John and Sherlock said at the same time. Of course, there'd been no denying that the criminal genius was behind their kidnapping. It was still nice to have the extra confirmation of that.

"Of course it's me. I'm touched you remembered."

John said "bug off" at the same time Sherlock asked "what do you want" in a soft voice.

"To play our little game, Sherlock. To have fun. To be with you."

"Then why take John? If it's me you want, let him go."

"Oh but I don't just want you Sherlock. John's part of the game."

Goosebumps were covering John's skin, and not from a lack of heat in the cell. "Like bloody hell I'll play one of your games."

"John..." Sherlock's voice was low, cautionary, carrying a warning. "Don't talk back to him, it's just want he wants."

"Not quite what I want, but such a good start to the game Johnny. I have such fun planned for you two."

John felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. "What do you want us to do?" Sherlock's voice was steady, calm even, but still with that edge to it that meant he was angry. John tasted salt and copper in his mouth. He'd bitten through the skin of his lower lip.

"Nothing. You've already done it Sherlock. You've started playing the game. Now comes the waiting bit."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for you to fall to pieces." Moriarty laughed. "Don't worry Johnny, you've got a front row seat." Again, that giggling laughter. "Aren't you going to ask why there was only one bottle today?"

Again John and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

"No."

"Why?

"I'm so glad you asked Johnny." There was the sound of gleeful clapping. "Because I knew you'd make Sherlock drink it. And that made it far too easy! I'd thought about shooting you up myself Sherlock, but this was too perfect! Now, Johnny gets to watch and better yet, he gave you it! Made sure you drank it!"

John looked up to where he knew Sherlock to be. "What stuff?" He asked in a quiet voice.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "He laced the water. He knew if there was only enough for one of us, you'd make me take it because you've been rationing yours. There was a drug in the water, something he wanted only me to have in my system."

"Bingo! Right you are Sherlock! And now the doctor gets to see you fall apart! He'll see just how low you can sink, what sort of man you really are!"

John felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. Sherlock was drugged. Sherlock was drugged and he had given him the drug.

"Don't you want to know what I gave you? Come on and ask me Sherlock." Moriarty had adopted that sad, pleading tone he'd used when speaking with John at the pool.

"What exactly," and John was glad it was Sherlock who was talking to Moriarty for now because he seriously doubted that he could have kept his own voice that level, "did you give me?"

"Just your old favourite. I know how you like your seven percent solution."

**_Leave a review, let me know what you thought._**


	4. Chapter 3

**_My thanks go to all the wonderful people who have reviewed the story so far, and to my Health teacher, Mr. Anderson, for being my consultant on how cocaine would work if dissolved in water, how long it takes to work into the system, the effects of cocaine, etc etc._**

The high had come about two hours later. John knew it was two hours because Moriarty had slid a light-up clock into the cell before leaving. Two terrible hours in which Sherlock had paced, muttering about lines of white powder in back alleys, and John had sat silently, trying to get just a little bit of seep. Two hours of waiting, wondering just how long cocaine took to pass into the human's bloodstream when ingested orally. The blinking red lights of the clock had counted off the long minutes.

And then the high had hit the detective. John could only pray that Sherlock would hold it together long enough for the drug to burn its way out of his body. He hadn't counted on the crash that had followed that terrible high.

"John..." Sherlock moaned as John wiped the cold sweet off his forehead. "John, do you have any?" His hands were shaking where they rested against his curled up knees. Sherlock's whole body seemed to tremble, shaking and rocking back and forth, his eyes half closed. "Got any of it? Just a little John. Just a little. Do ya got it?" His voice didn't even sound the same, quavering as he spoke and with a lower class accent to it that sounded nothing like the well educated voice he normally had. "Got any?"

John sat next to him, trying to hold Sherlock's rocking body in place long enough to get the water down his throat. "Sherlock, just drink this." He pushed the plastic bottle towards Sherlock's dried out lips for the fourth time. Sherlock just turned his face into John's shoulder. "Sherlock, you need to drink." John used the corner of his sleeve to dry the exposed part of John's neck. "I don't have anything but this, and even if I did I wouldn't give it to you." He tried to talk normally, as if they were back in the flat and Sherlock had asked John to hand over his phone for texting a serial killer. Again.

Sherlock jerked his head forward and the motion knocked the water bottle from John's hand. The bottle hit the ground and rolled away from them, spilling its contents on the cement floor. John swore and scrambled after it. By the time he'd found the bottle in the darkness, nearly all of the water was on the floor. He swore again, curing Moriarty and cocaine and Sherlock's stubbornness.

"Please John. Just a little bit. Not-" Sherlock was interrupted by a fit of coughs. When John took his face in his hands, he felt a stick liquid that could only be blood. "Not much John. Just-" John fought to hold Sherlock's head steady. Blood hit his own face as Sherlock coughed and coughed again. "A little. Make the pain go away."

John took Sherlock's shoulders in his hands and pulled him close. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I can't. I can't." He hiccuped and realized that he was crying into Sherlock's hair. "I can't make the pain go away."

Sherlock was silent, simply trembling against John's arms. John shifted around, sitting next to Sherlock with both arms wrapped around the other man's shoulders. He pulled Sherlock's head down onto his shoulder. The detective's hair was wet, soaked through with sweat and grime. It stuck to John's skin, though the cell was cold. And John rocked his friend from side to side, the pair curled up in almost fetal positions.

_x~x~x_

"Hey boss?" Moran knocked on the door of Jim's office, holding a stack of papers in his hand. "I think you might want to see this."

'_I can't make the pain go away._' The Pet's voice came over the speakers again. Jim giggled and swung around in his chair, letting the wheels spin around and around. "Isn't that so precious? The Pet, trying to make his master feel all better." He pushed his feet off the floor again and hit the repeat key as his hand passed the keyboard. The computer replayed the selected audio. '_I can't make the pain go away. I can't make the pain go away.'_

"It has a certain...ring to it." Moran's face was stoic. As an old hand in Jim's organization, he had a well developed poker face.

"Of course it does." Jim started dancing, spinning the chair around with his hands. "It's adorable! It's perfect!"

"It's always perfect with you boss." Moran held out the stack of papers. "I thought you might be interested in this. It's the most relevant results from the internet search."

The top paper was a print out from an online newspaper website. 'Manhunt for London Detective' topped the page, followed by a picture of the Virgin. Jim traced a manicured fingernail over the edge of the photo. "Lovely, isn't he?"

"Of course sir." Moran tapped the block of text below the photo. "They're out looking for him sir. His brother has the whole country looking for him."

"They've looked for us before." Jim was serious again, the mocking smile gone. "They've never found us unless we wanted them to."

"We've never taken Mr. Holmes's brother before. This time is different sir."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Are you worried, Moran? Think the Ice Man's going to catch me?"

Moran shook his head. "I don't think Mr. Holmes is good enough to catch you. I just think that he'll get his brother back before you finish your plan." He pointed at the spot on the page where Mycroft's name had be highlighted. "I knew him, by reputation, while I was in the army. He doesn't give up sir. Not when it's something he wants. And he'll want his brother back."

"Well, he can just suffer without him." Jim threw the article into the bin. "I want the Virgin for myself. Mr. Ice Man can take his reputation and use it for something else. I have his precious baby brother, the Pet and I'm keeping both of them."

Moran nodded, though reluctance was still written in the set of his jaw. "It's your call boss."

"Damn right it's my call." Jim walked around to the computer speakers and cranked the volume. John's voice filled the room. '_I can't make the pain go away. I can't make the pain go away._' Jim plugged in the microphone. "Now shush Moran. I've got to play with the Pet." He tilted the microphone towards his mouth, leaning back in the chair. "Helloooooo Johnny!"

There was a pause in which the only sound in the office was the crackle of the speakers. "What do you want, Moriarty?"

"Just to talk Johnny." Moriarty smiled to himself as Moran let the door close behind him. "How's Sherlock doing?"

"Bad. No thanks to you, you bastard." John's voice, though angry in tone, wasn't loud and remained at a regular volume. Jim smiled at the Pet's control of his emotions.

"Ah, are you mad Johnny? Mad that mean old Jim made Sherlock all sick?" He leaned forward and slapped the desk loudly with his open palms. "Well, I'm not the one who made him sick! You did Johnny! You made little Sherlock all sick!"

Silence from the solider in the cell.

"Did you hear me Johnny? You made Sherlock all sick and sad. You gave him those drugs. You pushed them into his hand." Jim dropped his voice to a low, silky purr. "You did it Johnny. Sherlock's sick and it's all your fault."

"That's a lie! That's a lie you sick twisted bastard!" There was several muffled thumps, the sound of a man beating a wall with his fists. "You're the one who did this. You sad sorry son of a bitch!"

Jim leaned back in his chair, smiling as he tapped his fingers on the desk's edge. This was even more fun than he'd thought it would be. The Pet was so fun to play with, to tweak his mind and make him think, even if only for a second, that he was responsible for drugging his best friend.

"John?" Think of the devil, and he shall speak. Jim's smile grew. "John? Where are you John?"

John stopped punching the wall. "Here Sherlock. I'm here."

"Now isn't that sweet? He's looking after his boyfriend, making sure he's alright and doesn't choke on his own blood." Jim giggled and clapped his hands together near the microphone for effect. "I do love a good love story."

"Moriarty. You-" Sherlock stopped talking and coughed, extremely loud and long.

"Sherlock, sit down." That was the Pet, probably trying to Virgin back to a sitting position. "You're not well."

"Of course he's not well Johnny. You drugged him all full of cocaine." Jim fought the urge to stroke his chin, like those over dramatic movie villans did.

"You drugged him, not me."

"Ah, but there's a problem with that logic Johnny. I only put that water into your lovebird's nest. You gave it to Sherlock. Your choice got Sherlock all," he dragged the word out, "sick. I didn't do that. You did."

"You bastard! Just shut up! Shut up!"

"Ah ah ah. Manners Johnny. You're my guest. I could easily make this visit so much worse for you. Or Sherlock."

"Don't listen to him John." The Virgin's voice was weak, rasping out of the microphone. "He just wants you angry. You didn't mean to give me the drug. Neither of us knew it was in there." Though his voice was soft, it still carried that tone that demanded that everyone shut up and listen to him.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I just got..."

"Carried away. I know John."

"So, Sherlock...?" Jim let the question metaphorically hover in the air above the two men.

"Yes Moriarty?"

"Was that fun? Did you enjoy the high?" He paused. Even though he knew the men he was talking to couldn't see him, he still felt the need to act physically as well. He tilted his hand to the side and pulled his eyebrows together. "Oh sorry, that's wrong. You took the drugs for what they did after the high."

"That would be correct."

"You took drugs before this? How could you Sherlock!" The Pet was yelling at the Virgin now. "Why would you ever even use drugs? I thought it was just the cigarettes. You never said anything about drugs!"

"John, now is hardly the time."

"Oh, I'd say it's the perfect time. Did he ever tell you Johnny?" Jim pulled open the file he'd left sitting on his desk for the past three days. "Did he tell you about using cocaine, weed and oh, crystal meth, all at the same time? How he sold all of his fancy clothes just to get high for another hour?"

"Moriarty, shut up!"

"But I'm just getting to the good part." Jim flipped the page, revealing the police report from four years before the Virgin had met the Pet. "Sherlock, you've been a very bad boy. Looks like you did all sorts of nasty naughty things for your drugs. They caught you over two dozen times preforming, and I quote, preforming sexual acts in exchange for illegal material. I think that means that you fucked people for drugs."

"That can't be true. He'd never do anything like that. Would you, Sherlock?"

"Don't be an idiot John. I'd never do anything like that. Only an idiot would believe that I'd do that."

"You're lying Sherlock." Jim clicked his teeth together. "Naughty, naughty boy." He lifted up the packet of papers to the microphone, flipping them rather loudly for the benefit of the two prisoners. "The police have pictures Sherlock. Should I show them to little Johnny? Show him the pictures of you jerking their undercover cop off? Maybe this nice shot of you on all fours getting it from behind. He's naked in all of these Johnny. Want to come up and see them, just for kicks?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Don't be so rude Johnny. As a matter of fact, I thought Sherlock might want to do that, since he seems to be so good at it."

"I'm with John on this, Moriarty. Go fuck yourself."

"I might do just that. Looking at all these cute pictures of you has gotten me all worked up." He clicked off the microphone and computer speakers without waiting for a response. The boys were ready to play. Time for some fun.


	5. Chapter 4

_**Really sorry about this being late. I forgot to type it up last night and then the wifi was being stupid and not letting me come on. Thanks as always to those who reviewed the previous chapters. You make me very happy :D**_

"I don't blame you John." Sherlock was pacing again. "It was an accident that you gave me the laced water, nothing more than that." His feet continued to make pat-pat-pat sounds on the cell floor. "And the drug's effects have worn off now, so there's no harm done."

John continued to star at the back of his hands, trembling as they sat balanced on his knees.

"The more important issue now is how to escape. I'm sure that Lestrade will be out looking for us, though how much good the police will be is doubtful. That Moriarty's taken you is a benefit to our chances of being rescued. You're friends with half the men on the force." Sherlock reached the wall, paused, then turned and began pacing back the way he had come. "And I have no doubt that my brother dearest will be out looking for me. Or at least, he'll have those buffoons of men he calls agents out looking for me. It will be rather embarrassing, I suppose, to be rescued by them. So we should effect our own escape before that can happen."

John willed his hands to stop shaking, just for one second could they please stop shaking, but the effort seemed to only make the shaking worse.

"What do you think John?" A pause. "John? Any ideas?" This time the pacing stopped as well. "John, are you ignoring me? You've never done that before, it would not be the best time now to start." Sherlock walked over to where John sat in the corner of the cell, nearly crashing into the curled up man. "John, what is the matter? I thought I had made it perfectly clear that you are not responsible for giving me the drugs. John? John?"

"Good morning!" Moriarty's voice came out of the speaker on the ceiling in a long, drawn out half-song. "Ready to play?" The door to the cell banged open, causing Sherlock to jump back and pull John with him. They staggered into the center of the small room. "Good! Let's get started with today's little piece of fun, shall we?"

The giant of a man, Moran, John remembered from the taxi cab stalked into the room, his hands holding an impressive gun. "Against the wall. Both of you." He emphasized his point with a jabbing of the gun. "Now."

John and Sherlock did as ordered, hitting the wall with Sherlock's hand still on John's arm. "What do you want Moriarty?" Sherlock gave John's arm a squeeze, a silent reminder to shut up and let Sherlock do the talking. "Simply shooting me seems a bit beneath you. Ordinary really."

"Moran doesn't have the same reserves about style that I do. He's perfectly okay with shooting you both." John took a step closer to Sherlock, as if he could protect his friend by simply being closer to the gun. "I do agree it would be a bit boring, especially with what I have planned for you two. So Moran," the gunman looked up at his name, "shoot for the kneecaps if you have to, okay?"

"Whatever you say boos." Moran looked back at John and Sherlock, adjusting his aim.

"Isn't that lovely? He does whatever I tell him to do. Tell you what Johnny. If you're very good, I'll let you call me boss instead of master when we're done."

"Bug off Moriarty."

"Nope." Moriarty went back to a sing-song childish voice. "We're going to play some games today, and I'm all excited." The speaker fell silent.

"You. Move." Moran jabbed the gun into John's chest.

"I'm not leaving Sherlock." John was suddenly holding very tightly onto Sherlock's shoulder. "It's both of us or neither."

"Move. Now." The click of the gun was incredibly loud in the cell, more than John knew it should be.

"Do as he says John." Sherlock pushed John's hand off. "I'll be fine."

"Sherlock." John looked like he was in physical pain.

"Go John. It's not worth it."

Moran jabbed the barrel of the gun into John's chest again, then moved his aim back to knee level. "Move or I shoot."

John moved off the wall. He squared his shoulders, gritted his teeth and held his chin up. Moran moved as John did, putting his back to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't move though. The gun was still pointed at John, now trained on John's back. The ex-solider moved stiffly and slowly towards the door, with rigid parade ground posture. He didn't turn to look back at Sherlock as he marched out the door, Moran close behind him. The cell door swung closed of its own accord once they were through.

"Left." Moran directed.

So John turned left. The hallway was dark, light bulbs spaced far apart, burning dimly from high up in the walls. The ground was even and smooth cement, just like the floor of the cell. The walls were brick, a dark red brick that was common in the older parts of the London suburbs. John knew this bit of trivia because Sherlock had once solved a case that hinged on the source of the brick used to break the window. John was momentarily proud that he remembered that. It was one small step closer to knowing where they were being held.

"Stop." John did as directed and found himself looking at a blank white door, similar to the doors at St. Barts. "Go in." He could hear the shifting of the gun in Moran's hands and decided that his chances were better off through the door.

"Ah Johnny. So glad you could join me." Moriarty smiled as John came through the swinging door. John was reminded of piranhas, grinning with their deadly teeth as they circled the remains of their prey. "I've been so eager to talk to you again."

The room was familiar to John, in the way that all surgeries were familiar to him. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Politeness really doesn't suit you. You look so much better with fire in your eyes." Moriarty looked over John's shoulder. "Hold him."

John found his arms being pulled back, wrenching him around by his wrists. "Let go of me!" He tried to pull himself forward and out of the grasp, but Moran's hold was like iron.

Moriarty, meanwhile, had closed the space between them and was now mere inches away from John. "Oh Johnny, I do love your face when you fight. Such a good solider."

John immediately relaxed. It went against all his instincts to simply slump in Moran's hold, but he didn't want Moriarty being pleased. "Let go of me." He demanded again, this time in a forced calm.

"But you look so nice." Moriarty was suddenly very close, very much in John's personal space. "All held up and unable to run away." He ran a finger along John's cheekbone and over his ear. "Irene raved about Sherlock's bone structure, but I think you're is so much nicer. So much rougher and more chiseled."

"Stop. Touching. Me." John turned his head, wincing for the feeling of Moriarty's finger running over his skin. "Just stop freaking touching me."

"Not happening Johnny." Moriarty kept one hand tracing over the edge of John's ear, his neck, his collarbone while the other hand gripped John's chin and forced his face back around. Moriarty licked his lips, seemingly without realizing it. "We're going to have such fun together, you and I. Won't we Johnny?"

Oh God. John saw it coming before it happened. Oh God. Oh no, not this. Please God, not this, not this, anything but this.

Moriarty's lips hit John's with an incessant pushing force. They demanded that John give, even as they took and took again. Unexpectedly, Moriarty's lips were chapped, rough skin that chaffed at John's. The criminal pushed and demanded, even as John struggled against Moran's hold on his arms and Moriarty's grip on his face. He closed his eyes, willing it to end, for Moriarty to just stop, for this all to be one terrifying horrible dream. Please God. Just let this be a dream.

The pressure on his lips dropped away. There were still fingers holding his head in place, nails biting into his skin, but at least his mouth was no longer under attack. He opened his eyes to face Moriarty's grinning expression of glee. "That was fun, wasn't it Johnny?"

"Fuck off." He gritted his teeth, regretting his choice of words.

"If you insist Johnny." And then the pressure was back, more demanding this time, pushing against John's lips as fingers trailed over his neck and ears, holding his head in place and exploring at the same time.

He tried to pull away from the force kiss, to back away from Moriarty and his demands. He had forgotten about Moran behind him. The bodyguard didn't move when John backed into him. Moriarty followed John, pressing him back into Moran. His lips pushed against John's, parting them slightly and then Moriarty's tongue was in John's mouth and John couldn't think anymore, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything.

As Moriarty slide his tongue between John's teeth, probing and pushing, running over the tops of John's molars, John did the only thing he could do. He closed his teeth down on the wriggling snake in his mouth, tasting blood. He bit harder, holding the tongue in place between his molars and enjoying the sight of Moriarty's eyes widen in pain.

Then Moran was tightening his grip and there was the cool feel of metal against John's hair. "Let go." He grumbled in John's ear. "Now."

John released his grip on Moriarty's tongue. Blood and the copper taste of it remained behind as Moriarty jerked away from John. He didn't say anything as he wiped the blood off his lips. He spat off into the corner, a splat of red liquid that landed a few feet away. Moriarty looked after it for a few seconds before turning back to John. His eyes had lost their flash playful glint. Now they were dark, menacing.

"Bad move Johnny. Very bad move."

**_Remember, reviews equal happiness!_**


	6. Chapter 5

_**So yeah, it's been a while since I updated this. First it was school, then exams, then family stuff. Plus, I hit a brick wall in the plot of this story. This chapter was really hard to write, so any feedback would be welcome.**_

Oh God. Oh God. The pain. John shuddered as his teeth dug deeper into his lower lip, the taste of salty blood filling his mouth. His eyes watered but he held them tightly closed, fighting the urge to cry. He wanted to scream, to yell for Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, anybody! to come and save him. He couldn't give Moriarty that. He wouldn't. He was not going to scream.

"Does it hurt Johnny? Are you in pain?" Moriarty's voice drifted into John's ears, low and sweet. "Want me to kiss it and make it all better?"

A pained "nnooo" escaped John's lips as his arms were pulled higher, the metal around his wrists digging into his skin. His back arched and stretched, pulling itself apart in a vain attempt to relieve the pain. His feet were tied down and weighted with more manacles, similar to the ones holding his hands high above his head. The old wound in his shoulder throbbed dully with faint pain, number by the overwhelming amount of pain signals swarming his brain.

"He speaks! The silent warrior speaks!" Moriarty clapped his hands delightedly. "Reward the good boy Moran. Let's leave him there for a while."  
The pulling at his wrists increased a little, then dropped off, leaving him hanging, suspended by his wrists. He let his head drop forward, eyelids fluttering. He couldn't tell if Moriarty was still there, or just where he was in the room. The view of his own feet floated in and out of his mind as he struggled to stay conscious.

And then he was hyper aware of just exactly where Moriarty was. Smooth fingers pressed into his shoulders, massaging his stretched muscles. "Why so tense Johnny? You need to relax." John squirmed, trying to get away from Moriarty's probing fingertips. "Hey, it's alright. I just want to help you relax." The fingers stayed with him, pushing at the muscle between his shoulder blades. Then Moriarty was rubbing John's shoulders, twisting his fingers in a gentle rhythm.

"Relax," he breathed softly into John's ear.

"Get your funking fingers off me Moriarty."

"Do you not like me touching you Johnny?" The fingers slide down, pushing against John's mid-back. "I thought I was rather good at giving massages."

"No."

"No what? No, I'm not good at massages? No, I actually really amazing at massages? You'd rather my hands were somewhere else?" His voice dropped lower, more sultry, on the last sentence.

John shivered. "No, I don't like you touching me." He tilted his head forward, fighting to get as far away from Moriarty as the metal restraints would allow.

"But I like touching you." Moriarty's lips brushed the back of John's neck, his ear, his hair. "I like how your skin is so soft, so tender, so smooth." His voice was like a cat's, a low purr that sent shivers down John's spine. "So nice. Even the scars are cute." He began running his fingers over the large scar web on John's shoulder, his memento of the desert.

"Don't fucking touch me." John squirmed violently to the side, wrenching his body out of Moriarty's grip. His shoulder and the opposite wrist screamed in red hot agony.

"If you say so Johnny." The fingers disappeared, though Moriarty's hot breath was still descending on the back of John's neck. "Let's move onto the entertainment for the evening then."

There was a scuffing sound, filling the room from the doorway. John turned his head, ignoring the grinning face of Moriarty that hovered over his shoulder like a twisted version of the comic book shoulder devil. Moran appeared in the door, the delicate legs of a woman draped over his shoulder. She was kicking his chest, the the big body guard wasn't showing any reaction to the violence. Moran unceremoniously dumped the woman in the centre of the room. She tumbled, face hitting the dirt and her body coming to rest at John's feet. Their eyes met, his pained and angry, her's full of nothing but terror.

"Now Johnny, you have a choice to make." Moriarty circled around. The woman back away, still on all fours. "Sherlock, bless his heart, is in the next room. Moran's quite skilled with needles, and not all the cocaine's gone. So I'm asking you Johnny. Should Moran inject Sherlock with more cocaine, or should I let him rape this lovely girl here?" Moriarty pointed a single finger at the woman, with the finality of a judge commending her to death.

She squeaked and backed into the corner, curling up on herself.

"It's up to you Johnny. I give you half an hour." Moriarty stalked out, followed quickly by Moran, who paused to give the woman and John a passing leer.  
And then the only sounds in the room were John's heavy breathing and the woman's quiet sobs.

She was pretty, John thought as he looked around the room in some hope of escape. Pretty, if you like fragile, undernourished blondes. He hair was speckled with dirt and small rocks, tangled and disordered. Black streaks ran down her cheeks, tracing the path of her tears in eyeliner. She was wearing a simple black dress, torn from hem to her waist, thin strings of black lace hanging over her pale white skin.

"Please," she covered her face with manicured fingernails. "Please." She seemed to be begging him to do something about their situation. "Please. Please."  
John stared straight ahead, biting his lower lip so hard the pain numbed away completely. "We'll get out of this, I know it." He didn't know if he was saying it to reassure himself, or her.

She simply started crying again. "Your friend. He'll be fine, right? It's cocaine. He'll be fine. So just tell them to do that." She waved her hand frantically at the door, as if to summon Moriarty back.

"I can't. Sherlock, he...he..." John didn't know how to explain just why he couldn't give Moriarty that answer. Not after he'd been holding Sherlock's shaking body through the forced cocaine use. "Damn you! Damn you James Moriarty!" He shouted towards the ceiling, shaking against his metal bonds. Because the choice wasn't a choice at all. It was a trap, with no escape, no moral ground, no right path to be found.

The woman didn't say anything coherent after that. John's wrists started to tingle, a sign that his pain was losing the fight to block out the pain. He tried to pull himself up by holding onto the chains, but the manacles around his ankles prevented any upward motion.

After what seemed like hours, the door opened.

"Johnny!" Moriarty danced in, throwing his arms open like an uncle greeting his favourite nephew. The woman pressed herself into the corner of the room, shielding her face with her knees. Moriarty ignored her and pranced up to John. He raised his hand as if to rest it against John's chest, then simply left it hanging in the air, fingers splayed. "How are you Johnny?"

"Let her go." His words got caught in his throat, coming out scratched and raspy. "Just let her go."

Moriarty's eyebrows went up. He was still smiling, showing off dangerously white teeth. "You know I can't do that Johnny. Not until you answer my question."

"I'm fine."

"No, no, no. The other question." Then he did place his hand on John's chest, fingers spread on his rumpled shirt. "What are we going to watch tonight? A good piece of drug use ooooor," his fingers moved to the exposed part of John's collar bone, "dear little Moran banging the lovely lady here?" He gripped a small section of John's skin between two fingers, playing with it almost tenderly.

"Moran's not exactly little." John couldn't help in making the jib. He hadn't wanted to engage in any sort of conversation with the criminal mastermind, but his body wasn't listening to his brain.

His regret increased when Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. "Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. That's why I love you. Must be why Sherlock kept you around as well."

"My refusal to go along with your mad schemes? Yeah, that has to be it."

"Tut tut Johnny. You still haven't answered my question." He was pressing up against John's chest now, his lips against John's neck. John couldn't help but remember the countless times he'd fallen asleep with the sweet feeling of a woman's lips pressed against the same spot. "What's it going to be? Sherlock or her?"

"Please." John closed his eyes, fighting to block out the sound of the woman crying in the corner and the memory of Sherlock's sweat covered face that flashed before his eyes. "Please. Don't hurt Sherlock."

"Are you begging Johnny? John was startled by the strangle, unwelcome sensation of Moriarty's nose rubbing against the hollow of his neck. "Are you begging me to spare your precious Sherlock?"

"Yes." John cleared his throat, still refusing to open up his eyes and look at Moriarty. "Please. I'm begging you."

"Then you want Dani, that was your name right, to be raped? I'm surprised at you Johnny, I thought that sort of thing was beneath even you."

"No, please, don't do either."

"I'm sorry Johnny. But it has to be one or the other." Moriarty started laughing again, his head thrown back and jugular bared. What John wouldn't give for the leeway in his restraints to lean forward and tear out Moriarty's throat with his teeth.

As if sensing John's murderous thoughts, Moriarty's dark eyes came down and met his. "Unless, Johnny...unless..." He seemed to be waiting for a response from John.

John kept his mouth stubbornly silent.

Moriarty sighed. "Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." He ran a finger along the line of John's chin. John was too weak and exhausted to do anything more than flinch. "I had so hoped you would proved more open to my little games. Clearly, we still have some lessons to learn." He drew his hand back only to slap John's cheek. His touch was almost playful, the slap of a child playing house and chastising a playmate.

"Bring me the cocaine Moran." Moriarty said without taking his gaze off John's eyes. "And then I'll leave Dani in your capable hands."

"What?" John screamed, pulling against the chains that held him suspended in the air. "But you said one or the other!"

"Of course." Moriarty walked towards the door. "I said you choose one or the other. Since you can't give me an answer, we get both shows. Double feature and all!"

His parting laughter was drowned out by Dani's screams of fight and pain, and John's howl of anger.


	7. Chapter 6

"Morning Sherlock! Rise and shine!" Jim danced into the cell, smiling at the pacing detective. "How did you sleep? Restful, I hope."

Sherlock glared at him. "Where's John?"

"Busy." Jim waved a distracted hand, brushing off the topic. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Where? Is? John?" He pushed Jim up in a strangle hold, hands holding him against the wall. "If you've hurt him, if you've done anything to him at all, I swear, I'll end you."

"Tut tut Sherly. You're forgetting something." Jim brushed a hand lazily over Sherlock's arm, unperturbed by the attack. "I have John, not you. If I wanted to hurt him, it would be just oh so easy." He drew out the last three words, smiling wide as he did so.

Sherlock dropped his arms and back away. "If you've hurt him in any way..."

"Yes, yes, I know. You'll end me. Bit melodramatic of you, don't you think?" Ignoring Sherlock's glare of annoyance, Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a clear vial with white powder inside. He raise it to eye level, as if checking that the contents were still inside. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"Cocaine. Of course." Sherlock sounded bored.

"Don't you want to ask what I'm bringing it here for?"

"I expect you're going to force me to ingest it."

"You take the fun out of everything." Jim pouted. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

Sherlock smirked. "It's not much of a surprise if you come in to gloat about your plan."

"Well then, here you go." Jim held the vial out.

Sherlock looked away and then, after a moment, moved away as well. "No."

Jim stepped with Sherlock, pressing closer. He shook the vial gently, the sound of clinking rocks echoing in the small cell. "Don't lie to me Sherlock. I know you want to."

"I don't."

"Liar liar pants on fire."

"I'm not interested."

"Not even to help Johnny?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered between Jim's face and the vial. "What are you going to do with him? If I don't take it, that is."

Jim shrugs. "Nothing much." He ran his tongue over his upper lip, a slow drawn out movement that drew Sherlock's eyes. "But don't tell me you haven't noticed how..." He paused, head tilted to the side with a small curve to his lips, "delicious your little pet looks. I might just," he grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pulled him close, his mouth brushing Sherlock's ear, Jim's head resting at an angle on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock went sensibly still. "Take a bite," he finished.

Jim stepped back, watching Sherlock's face.

"You want me," Sherlock's skin was paler than normal, practically a white sheet. "To use cocaine," his nostrils were flared, pupils dilated. "Otherwise you," he blinked slowly, lips curled in on themselves. "Will rape John."

"Yes." Jim said the word simply, with no dramatic flair of wild motions. A simple, one word answer that he dropped into the room with complete lack of ceremony.

Sherlock bowed his head, eyes dark and stoic for once. "Give it to me." He breathed out the words with a gasp, as if he used up all the air in his lungs to say them.

Jim looked at Sherlock with a frowned bow. He hadn't expected the detective to give up that easily. "I'm sorry?" He knew he'd heard the words correctly. Asking for them to be repeated was part of the show.

"The cocaine, give it to me." Sherlock snapped his fingers impatiently. "I'll do it."

Jim offered the vial up in the palm of his hand. Sherlock snatched it, as if he was afraid Jim would reject his agreement and carry out his threat. "I'm glad you came around Sherlock."

"Shut up." Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore, eyes boring down to the vial of cocaine powder in his fingers.

"Whatever helps you concentrate." Jim leaned back, shoulders against the cool cement of the cell wall, crossing his arms in a mockery of patient disinterest.

"If you could leave, actually, that would help."

"Need some time along to think it all over?" He makes air quotes around the second half of the sentence.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then returns to staring at the object in his hand.

Jim chuckles and walks to the door. "Don't do anything while I'm gone. I have front row tickets to this show and I'm not missing it for the world." He made sure to lock the door behind him. No sense in getting careless when the game was that close to working out in his favor.

He whistled to himself as he walks sowly down the hallway, hands in his pockets. Things were going well. The Iceman was scrambling to track down his brother. Jim hadn't tried to cover up who had taken the residents of flat 221B. He had simply prevented anyone from following the cars as they'd left the city. He's even made sure to leave his little back door to the security channels open. No sense in organizing a kidnapping like this if you couldn't watch the pathetic efforts of the London police trying to track them down. Hacking the CTV cameras to block the getaway cars was easy; keeping control so he could watch the investigation was child's play.

Jim stopped outside the room where he'd left the Pet. Moran and his new plaything were gone; the Pet alone in his chains. As planned. Jim smiles at the Pet through the window in the door, then started walking again. Leave him to stew a little longer, he thought. He'll wait.

The walk around the central hallway of the complex went fast. Four turns around corners and he was back in front of the cell. He rapped his knuckles against the steel frame. "Sherlock. Time for the show." He walked in, letting the door swing on it's hinges, light from the hallway spilling into the cell.

Sherlock was standing in the same place he had been when Jim left. "I would assume by your safe return, the mighty criminal empire of Moriarty is still standing."

"Of course." Jim took up his spot on the wall, leaning with one foot resting on the base board.

"How unfortunate."

"So Sherlock, you ready?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Jim shook his head sadly. "No you don't."

Sherlock nodded once. Jim watched, fascinated, as he took off his scarf, laid it carefully on the floor, and sat down. He lifted the vial of cocaine up to his eye level, turning his head so the light from the hallway passed through the grains. "You promise. I do this, you don't hurt him."

"That is our deal. You snort, John stays safe."


End file.
